Chapter 1
The mud glistened in the early morning light. Beneath the surface, fragile creatures hid their bodies from the fatal eye of the sun.
Petie Warton surveyed his dominion from the remains of the old quay. The estuary was wide here. The hills that curled their toes to avoid the salt water, sparkled with dew. The river meandered from beneath his feet to the far side, before swinging back in a gentle curve and snaking it’s way to the sea. The water was clear and calm and the wind from the south carried the scent of turbulent seas and the distant sound of a communion bell.
With the ease of long practice, Petie pulled on his thigh waders and collected his buckets and fork from the back of the Land Rover. To reach his quarry, which lay hidden out in the middle, he would have to cross a moat of soft mud. So, he inspected it carefully. In places it was over five feet deep with the power to grip a man and drown him when the tide returned.
In centuries past, before the river silted, this place had been a thriving harbour, deep enough for sea going ships to birth safely. All that remained visible now was the old quay; but, hidden beneath the mud were the foundations of the old walls. One of these ran, for thirty feet, straight out towards the middle. It had been discovered by his father’s dog, Sophie and was always referred to within the family, as Sophie’s walk. In bleak years, this secret had kept them alive.
Petie lined up the old oak tree on the far bank with the top of the church spire that peeped over the distant hill and then stepped onto the mud. His boot sank no more than six inches before finding the old stone.
Half way across, he paused and checked his position. The wall had a gap in it here where an old doorway had been. He had once rescued a young tourist boy who had tried to follow him by stepping in his footsteps. Only the lad’s head was still visible by the time Petie reached him. The boy’s father had given him a ten pound note. It had seemed a lot for his effort but little for a life.
Carefully he felt for the edge of the wall with his boot. The first few stones on the other side were loose, so he always took extra care.
When he reached the hard, Petie removed his waders and put on an old pair of sneakers that were in one of the buckets. From the other bucket, he took out a short stake which he banged into the ground with the handle of his fork. Finding the wall from this side of the mud was a lot more difficult, so he always marked the start of it. Sometimes, on the spring tide, the sea would come in so fast that the water had completely covered the mud by the time he reached the wall. The stake would be his only clue to Sophie’s walk and safety.
As he walked, he concentrated on the surface of the hard, searching for the tiny mounds left by the burrowing worms.
He’d almost reached the far side when he saw the girl. She lay in the bed of the river. Her head was completely submerged but the rest of her body lay diagonally up the bank. Her eyes were closed and her white dress was hitched up above her stomach. She had no knickers on.
Petie stared at her, shaking his head. This wasn’t the first drowned body he’d found, but the others had all been sailors who had been in the water for days. Bloated and battered by the sea, faces nibbled by fish.
This girls looked asleep. The ripples of water across her face lent her the air of someone dreaming.
Leaving his buckets at the top of the bank, he went down and rearranged her dress. There was seaweed in her pubic hair and at the top of her thigh there was an ugly scar, puckered by the sea.
Petie stood with his head hung, lost in memories of his daughter, long dead. She would have been about the age of this girl by now, but blond of course, very blond. The old familiar ache in his chest began to grow and he rubbed his face hard to stem the tears he knew would follow.
^^^^^^^^^
The rescue helicopter flew low and slow from the direction of the sea until it hovered a hundred feet above his head. His trousers whipped round his legs and his buckets cart wheeled across the hard. The winch man lent out and raised a hand in question – giving a thumbs up when Petie pointed at the girl and drew his finger across his throat. The helicopter rose up into the air and flew back the way it had come.
The down draft had blown the girls dress up again. Now the police would come and by the time they had finished, the tide would have returned.
There would be no digging today.
=============================================
Chapter 2
“Fuck off, you bastard. You always turn it round – always slide out of it. This is about me, not about you -----------------“
Daniel stared at his shoes, letting her fury wash over him. She’d started as soon as he walked through the door, seamlessly carrying on this morning’s argument.
He still had his coat on and he’d put mud on the carpet. She’d be on about that in a moment too.
And she was right, he knew – he did always turn it round. What else was he supposed to do? If you’re attacked, you fight back and bollocks to turning the other cheek.
He understood the problem right enough. She didn’t love him at the moment – simple. He knew how she felt; he’d been there – but her fantasies of freedom were tempered by fear of loneliness.
She’d come round; at least, he sincerely hoped she would.
Daniel looked up. Something in his face stopped her short.
“What?”
“Paula’s dead.”
“What? – What? When, how?”
He watched as her eyes finally focused on his face.
“They found her yesterday in some river in Cornwall.”
“Cornwall? What’s she doing in Cornwall, for God’s sake?”
“They don’t know.”
“What do you mean? Someone must know. Don’t you?”
For a moment their eyes locked.
“No” he said. “ I haven’t seen her for weeks.”
He could see her nostrils quivering.
“Liar.” She spat. Then she started to cry.
Daniel was hot. He could feel the sweat trickling down inside his shirt and his new black tie was trying to strangle him. They’d arrived late, having missed the motorway exit and had parked some way from the church.
On the way down Abie’s silence had been an accusation that they both understood he had no answer to. It was only when then reached Bishop’s Waltham that she had pointed out that his tie was inappropriate – her word – for a funeral, so they had stopped at a haberdashery to buy a suitable replacement.
Inside, the church was packed and since all the pews were taken, they had stood just inside the door with the ushers. Daniel was surprised by how few of the congregation he recognised. Presumably people from Paula’s childhood. He smiled at a horse faced girl he’d met once in Paula’s flat an tried to remember her name; something to do with rabbits – Floppy? Or Hoppy? – but she stared blankly back at him with moist eyes.
The organist was so old and bent that her nose almost touched the keyboard. She was having some difficulty playing a piece by Mozart and was solving her problems by halving the tempo and missing out some of the notes. The vicar, obviously ready to begin the service, was making small flapping movements with his hand in an effort to attract her attention.
“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together to give thanks for the life of Paula Watson de Veritee who--------“
The service seemed interminable. Daniel felt light headed and his feet were beginning to tingle. On the wall opposite him was a large marble plaque with two regimental flags on either side of it. It commemorated a Viscount Watson de Veritee V.C. late of the Bengal lancers who fell at the battle of Ranjapour in 1874. Towards the front of the church, Daniel could see the silver man of Paula’s father, the latest scion of the line. His luxuriant hair was recognisable from the only photograph in Paula’s flat. He wondered if the old man knew how much she hated him.
One of Paula’s Uncles was giving an eulogy. He described a happy bouncing child, a hard working student, a young woman with world at her feet. It wasn’t the Paula he knew. His Paula was seriously fucked up.
After the service, people stood around the graveyard in small groups, talking quietly. Suddenly there was loud laugh which trailed off into a high, keening wail. The horse faced girl collapsed against a gravestone and was instantly surrounded by a group of old ladies. From a distance they looked like vultures round a kill.
Daniel felt vaguely ashamed of his own lack of emotion. After all, he’d worked with Paula; he’d wined and dined her and slept with her twice. And yet he felt nothing but a sense of relief. Maybe he was a cold bastard as Abie had said.
As they turned to leave, Paula’s father came up to them.
“Excuse me, I don’t seem to know your faces. Were you friends of my daughter’s?”
“Yes, we knew her in London.” Replied Abie “She worked with Daniel for few months last year.”
“Ah, Daniel, yes we’ve heard of you. May I have a word?” He said “Will you excuse us for a moment, my dear?”
taking Daniel’s elbow, he guided him away from the crowd.
“We’re terribly sorry-----“ Daniel began.
“Yes, yes, we all are - of course, of course. Look, dear boy, I was wondering whether I could ask you a few questions. You see, her mother and I – well – we need to try and understand.”
“Certainly” said Daniel, “ anything to help. But I didn’t know her very well, I’m afraid.”
“It seems that none of us did, I fear, but I understand that you’ve met my other daughter, Bunny,” he gestured vaguely towards the crowd, “ hasn’t taken it very well, poor thing.”
Over the old man’s shoulder, Daniel could see that the vultures had got the girl to her feet and she was now enfolded in the arms of a woman wearing a black fur coat. Over the girls head, the woman seemed to be watching him intently.
“Bunny’s under the impression that Paula had taken rather a shine to you.”
Unbidden, the memory of their first night together came back to him. The scent of the massage oil, the flickering candles, the way that they had slipped and slithered like fish for hours until the bed had become a sodden mass of oil and sweat. She had seemed insatiable.
He tried to meet the old man’s eyes.
“Shine?.....erm – I’m surprised.”
For a moment the old man just stared at him. He felt open, vulnerable, acutely aware that the echoes of the past must be flickering across his face.
“Look, my boy, may I contact you when I next come up to Town? It would be a pleasure to give you lunch at my club.”
Cecil Watson de Veritee watched as they left. He was tapping a business card against his teeth. ‘Daniel freeman – Futures’ it said.
======================================
Chapter 3
“Well, it was Saturday night. I’d met up with Pete; you know, the bloke from accounts and we’d had few beers in the pub and then gone clubbing down the Tottenham Court Road. As soon a we walked in, I spotted her and fuck me if she didn’t start giving me the eye. I thought it must be a trick of the light. I mean, I’m no David Beckham and this bird came right off a magazine cover.”
Daniel signalled the barman and ordered two more pints of beer. He’d had lunch with Paula’s father. He hadn’t enjoyed it much. The old man had seemed vaguely threatening and was obviously used to getting his own way. During the meal, he had dropped various names into the conversation. All of them powerful, some in the government and one, the chairman of Daniel’s firm. Over brandy, Daniel had heard himself agreeing to look into Paula’s recent past.
Later in the afternoon, he’d just scanned the photo he’d been given into his PC with some idea of making copies, when one of the office juniors had walked passed.
“Bloody hell!” he’d said “ where did you get a pic of her then?”
They’d agreed to meet after work.
“Now don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way down on myself. After all, I’ve got a decent wedge in my pocket and a fuckin great motor. Have you seen it? Cost a fuckin packet, I can tell ya. What I’m saying is - I get by. You know how it is, a deal here, a deal there?”
Daniel didn’t know how it was.
“---- and it was the girl in the picture?”
“Yea. I was surprised because, some how, women don’t usually seem to take to me right off like. Truth to tell I’ve never had much success in that department. Still, my Mum says that I’ll make a good catch for someone – but mums always say that don’t they?”
“Not mine,” said Daniel “she died when I was four and my stepmother never thought I was any kind of catch at all.”
“Really? Tough break. Still as I was saying – I’m not much of a reader, but I’d recently flicked through a book by a bloke called Richard Dawkins. Do you know who I mean?”
Daniel nodded.
“Anyway, in this book, old Rick states that since a male produces millions of sperm with very little effort, it is his genetic duty to impregnate as many females as possible. A woman, on the other hand, has to expend so much time and energy on having a kid and raising it etc. that her number one concern is to find the biggest and best stud she can to do the deed. It’s kind of the Dawkins theory of sexual attraction or something, right?
Well, as you can see, that’s not me, is it? Even togged up in my leather jacket and sporting a pair of a hundred quid trainers, I’m still no ‘Leader of the pack’, or anything.”
He was right. He had the pasty face of someone shy of exercise and too fond of fried food.
“ Yeh well, anyway; we went to the bar and had just got in a couple of bevies when the next thing I know, she was right there. ‘ you’ve got a very cute bum’ she said.
I hadn’t seen her coming and damn near choked. Half my beer went in my lap and what with the coughing and the soaking, I was seriously disadvantaged. As the mist cleared, I realised that she was patting me on the back with one hand and mopping my trousers with the other. Very embarrassing. I noticed that she had very long, red fingernails.
Then she took my chin in her hand and turned my face towards hers. I could see myself reflected in her eyes. I looked like a drowned fish. Gasping, I was.
Then she said ‘ I need you’. Bloody weird eh? Her breath smelt strange too. A kind of mixture of chemicals and roses. Anyway, I think you could say I was hooked, mesmerised like a rabbit in headlights.”
He stared down into his glass, remembering.
“What happened then?” said Daniel.
“Eh? Oh yea. Well, she took my hand and led me across the room to her table. There was a bloke there I hadn’t noticed before; black suit black polo neck sweater and cheap watch. Something about his hooded eyes and the way that his tongue kept flicking across his lips, that reminded me of a lizard.
“This is ……Oh! I don’t know your name” she said. “Alfred.” I mumbled. “Alfrrred!” she rolled the ‘R’ around her mouth like some kind of exotic chocolate. “Alfred meet Manuel.” Manuel looked me up and down. I could see he wasn’t impressed. “You want this woman?” he said. It was more of a challenge than a question. “Then we will dance for her.” And he pushed past me towards the dance floor. I hadn’t the faintest ides what was going on. The girl leant close to my ear, “Go dance,” she said “ Go dance for me, Amore.”
The D.J. was now well into his set and had cranked the volume up passed the threshold of pain. He was playing some hiphop track which had a bass end like God bonking and a melody played on a chainsaw. Manuel stood perfectly still as the other dancers whirled and stomped in sweaty ecstasy around him. Suddenly the girl grabbed my arm. You must dance Alfred, you must dance!” She said “Why?” I asked. “Because if you win the dance, I will be yours and he will have lost me forever” Well, I told her I don’t dance and I was surprised to see a snake of fear slither across her face. “This is a dance club! And you do have dancing shoes?” “ I still don’t dance.” I told her.
Somewhere in the back of my head a warning bell began to ring. It looked like I’d been picked as the patsy. I was caught up in some strange game these two were playing.
“Sorry” I said; and the life seemed to go out of her, she seemed older and smaller, worn out and hopeless. “Then I’m lost” she whispered and slumped back into her chair.
I glanced over at Manuel. He’d struck and exaggerated pose; a kind of John Travolta in ‘Saturday Night Fever’ type of thing and he had a nasty, sly grin on his face. It was an expression that I recognised. The look of a guy who thinks he’s beaten you to the cut; who reckons he’s won the hand.
God knows where the fuck my head was at. I should have just walked away but there was something about the guy that was beginning to get on my nerves. So I left the girl in her own private misery and walked slowly towards the dance floor. As soon as I reached him, Manuel began to dance. He was good; no, fairs fair, he was great. He had all the moves down, plus a few I’d never seen before.
I stood perfectly still; like I said, I don’t dance.
We never took our eyes off each other except when he did a pirouette and then his eyes head snapped round faster than a snake can strike. All the time he danced his tongue flickered over his lips. I really didn’t like him.
The D.J. segued into a halftime track. It was smart mix alright, but knocked Manuel out of the groove and he ground to halt, breathing hard.
His tongue froze in the corner of his mouth as I unwrapped the razor blade that I carry in case I strike lucky. He knew what it was all right and all its uses. I could see the odds racing passed his eyes, but he didn’t like the way the ground was shifting and he didn’t understand the new rules. Mind you, neither did I.
In slo mo, I held up the second finger of my left hand and stroked it with the blade. It didn’t hurt but in the ultra violet light, the blood looked green. Slowly, I pushed my finger closer and closer to his face. He didn’t move his feet, but he drew his head as far back into his shoulders as he could. Neither of us were aware of anything but that slow green pulse.
And then – I touched his tongue.
Instinctively he whipped it back into his gob and when he tasted the salt, a look of real terror came over his face. I couldn’t hear what he was yelling but it didn’t look polite. Maniacally rasping his tongue with his sleeve, he stumbled backwards and was swallowed by the writhing mass of dancers. I never saw him again.
Amazing, really, how people react to blood. It’s the stuff of life – and these days, the stuff of death, I suppose.
Like Mr Dawkins says; there are only so many females available at any one time,so we males have to compete with each other to get laid. Apparently this is because it’s our genes that are really in control and they don’t give a shit about us; So I reckon, that if he’s right and it is my genes that are in charge, then I’d better get the bastards into the front line smartish. Anyway, all I did to Manuel was jerk his trigger.”
Daniel watched as the fear and excitement drained from Alfred’s face.
“That’s some story. Are you sure this is same girl?” Alfred took the picture and inspected it for a moment.
“Definite.” He said “ But she’s younger and, I don’t know, cleaner in this. Must have been taken sometime ago I reckon.”
“Not long actually”
“So, what’s your interest in her then?”
“I used to know her. But she disappeared.”
“Well she was keeping some pretty strange company when I came across her”
Alfred shifted uneasily on his stool.
“Close friend of yours is she?”
“Not really. Was that the last you saw of her?”
“Well, I couldn’t leave her there, could I? She didn’t seem to have any where to go. Anyway, I took her back to my gaff.
It was pissing down when we left the club. I hesitated in the doorway, as you would, but she just walked straight out into the downpour. She took three or four steps, turned and then stood there staring back at me. I held out my hand which was like putting my arm into a bath, but in seconds she was drenched to the skin. She seemed to melt. Her makeup began to run and her dress vacuum-packed her body. Christ! She was thin.
The bouncers were lounging against the counter, faces blank – they’d seen it all before and more, I reckon. So, in the end, I went out too; had to really. Like a dickhead, I took my jacket off and put it over her head – complete waste of time –she was wetter than a fag in a toilet already.
On the way home, she never said a word. Mind you, I probably wouldn’t have heard her, what with the rain pounding the car roof. Thank fuck, I’d remembered to put the soft top up.
She got out of the car by herself all right, and followed me up the stairs. On the third floor, I stopped to see how she was doing. She was one flight down and coming on steady. Her hair was hanging in rat’s tails in front of her face but she didn’t seem to be breathing heavy, which is more than can be said for Yours Truly.
I showed her into the lounge and went to find some towels. By the time I’d found the freshest one - which took a bit of hunting for I can tell you – She’d stripped off and was lying bullock naked on the carpet; on her back, eyes closed. Her arms were by her side and her legs were straight out. From somewhere, she’d found a couple of candles and lit the gas fire. Laid out like an offering, she was – or like a sacrifice.
I stood in the doorway and watched her but she took no notice of me at all. After a bit, I went over.
“Coffee?” I said. I realised that I didn’t know her name. I knelt down and touched her shoulder. “Coffee?”
Her skin was cold and a bit rough, like wet suede. I could see a pulse beating in her neck and the fine hairs beneath her nose vibrating when she breathed. She had what looked like a tattoo on the top of her thigh but when I bent over to have a closer look, I saw it was more a brand that had been burnt into her flesh. It said ‘Manuel’. Talk about putting down your mark!
Well! What’s a boy supposed to do heh? She was asking for it, wasn’t she?
Afterwards, I went to the bog, as you do, and there was the Dawkins book. ‘The Selfish Gene’ it said in big silver letters – and I thought, yea! Those little rascals have got a lot to answer for. But it didn’t make me feel much better.
When I got back to the lounge, there was a smell of wet clothes and dead matches, plus the usual stink of unwashed dishes and old garbage. One of the candles was out and the other was guttering. Outside, the early morning market lorries were rattling the windows. She was curled up in front of the fire.”
“Coffee?” I whispered. But she was hugging her belly like she was protecting something precious; and she was smiling in her sleep.”
Alfred drained the last of his pint.
“And that was the last I saw of her.” He said, briskly. “ In the morning, she was gone. I’d have thought I dreamt it all if it wasn’t for the cold cup of coffee and the melted wax all over the mantle piece.”
Alfred hesitated.
“What?” asked Daniel.
“Well ------ there was a used syringe in the bathroom. Nothing to do with me; I don’t do the hard stuff.”
Chapter 4
Two days later, Daniel was summoned to see the managing director. In the lift, he found himself wondering what misdemeanour he could have committed. As far as he was aware, his stats were up to scratch and the McFadden deal had been a real feather in his cap. Okay, it had been six weeks ago - but even so.
The doors opened onto the smell of antique beeswax and Parisienne perfume. On the wall in front of him was a large painting that he vaguely recognised. Renaissance? Maybe Dutch. Behind an ornately inlaid table, a well-dressed middle-aged woman watched him over her half glasses. After the cacophony and chaos of the dealing room, the calm silence of the top floor was slightly unnerving. As he reached her, the woman muttered into her intercom and a small red light over the door to her right, turned green.
When he was ushered into the managing director's office, to his surprise, Sir Joel rose from behind his desk and came forward to shake his hand.
"Daniel" he said . "So good of you to come. I really don't seem to see enough of you front line fellows, I'm afraid."
He gestured vaguely towards the sofa and sat down on the edge of his desk. Daniel was surprised to see that his socks didn't match.
" Of course, it's completely different to how it was in my day, you know. Between you and me, I find computers rather mystifying." Sir Joel chuckled to himself. The reality was that he'd never touched a computer in his life and had no intention of ever doing so.
"Now do business. I understand that you have agreed to do some work for Cecil de Veritee."
"Well , sir, I wouldn't quite put it like that."
"Really? He gave me the distinct impression that he had made some kind of arrangement with you and he certainly ‘suggested’ - if I may put it like that - that you should have two weeks off."
"Two weeks?" Said Daniel . "I'm amazed. I thought of it more as something I could do in my spare time and at weekends. I certainly wouldn't have agreed if I'd thought that it was going to interfere with my work Sir."
"My dear boy, if Cecil de Veritee is taking an interest in you, then believe you me, you're a very lucky young man indeed. He can do you an awful lot of good and, it should be said, he can also make life rather difficult – for both of us, if you get my drift." For a moment he was lost in thought.
"Yes, very difficult. My advice would be to go along with whatever it is that he suggests."
When Daniel returned to the trading room, he found a large Fed Ex envelope waiting for him on his desk. Inside, he found a note from Paula's father pinned to the outside of a large yellow folder
"Daniel," it said " I am very grateful to you for offering to help us in this delicate matter. As you will realise, it would cause severe embarrassment and distress to the family if the circumstances of Paula's death were to leak to the newspapers and I know that I can rely on your absolute discretion.
As I think I explained to you when we last met, I have been a very loath to involve anyone more official, such as a private detective, because I fear that his inquiries would lead to unsavoury speculation by those he talked too. You, on the other hand, can truthfully pose as Paula's boyfriend and as such, your questions will seem perfectly natural.
I have enclosed various pieces of information that I think might prove useful to you. In particular, I would draw your attention to the report on the autopsy which was kindly performed by Dr Michael's at my request.
I would be very grateful if you would keep me up-to-date with your investigations and to facilitate this, please use my private phone number on which you can contact me at any time of the day or night.
Finally, I think it would be best, at least for the time being, that the fact that you are reporting to me should be kept just between ourselves.
The signature was an indecipherable scrawl. Only the letters C. and V. stood out. Inside the folder were :
A single page autopsy report,
A| copy of 'The Proceedings of the Bodmin Coroners Court - June 25, 2003',
A typed page of names and telephone numbers, a cheque for £2000 and two more photographs of Paula. One, a rather stilted studio portrait in which she was wearing a white satin ballgown and a pearl necklace, and the other, an enlargement of a passport photograph, which had obvious been taken much more recently. In this one she had short hair and a vaguely hunted look in her eyes. Daniel stared at the photograph a long time. This was the Paula that he knew. Somehow the blurred, unfocused face that stared back at him , fitted precisely with his memory of her. Undefined and always just out of reach. A ghost.
As he was wondering what to do next, Daniel's computer pinged to announce the arrival of new mail. When he opened it up it said ' Two weeks off heh? Who's arse have you been licking then? Go on then, fuck off- Bastard.'
Daniel looked over towards the glass cage that housed his senior. Paul was a good guy. He had come from the slums of the East End and started as an office boy. The first time that he'd entered the trading room he'd known that this was where he belonged. He'd later told Daniel that it was the smell. It was the same as in the street market but here in this room it was a hundred times as strong.
Paul stuck two fingers up at him and went back to talking on the phone. Daniel locked the drawers of his desk, picked up the folder and made his way between the rows of desks and terminals to pick up his coat. A number of the guys congratulated him on his good fortune. News travels fast in the electronic age.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Abie was out when he got home. Her work as a supply teacher, made her hours unpredictable. He badly needed to discuss the situation with her, but the chaos in some of the schools she had to work at, often left her ragged and exhausted. If this had been one of those days, then the very mention of Paula's name was likely to result in recriminations and slamming doors. Still, he needed to get her on side. This whole thing was getting bigger and more complicated by the minute. After his first meeting with Cecil de Veritee, he had thought that if he talked to a few of Paula's friends and got some idea of how she had spent her last month, then that would satisfy her parents.
Daniel sat on the sofa and laid the contents of the folder out on the coffee table. The autopsy report was a photocopy of a single page, presumably a summary, because it contained only the basic facts. It had Paula's name at the top, her height, weight, and approximate age, a time of death, the cause of death and was signed by a Dr Michael's. The coroner's report however, appeared to be the full transcript of the proceedings. The cheque was drawn on a Coutts bank account in the name of C.V. Holdings. On the back of it was handwritten - Expenses. The more he looked at that word, the more worried Daniel became. £2000 for expenses seemed a hell of a lot. What was he expected to do that could possibly cost that amount? Then he picked up the page of telephone numbers. Apart from the old man, the family home and one for Dr.Michaels, he didn’t recognise any of them. Finally he read the note again.
The whole thing was nuts. Why on earth would a man who could scare the shite out of Sir Joel need to employ a complete amateur. All that business about posing as the boyfriend just didn't ring true. Surely any halfway competent private dick would be able to get the information needed without arousing suspicion.
Daniel sat for a long time turning it all over in his mind until the coffee grew cold and Abie came home.
And she took it remarkably well. She seemed to see the whole thing as a bit of an adventure. The cheque particularly, seemed to impress her. Apparently it showed that Cecil de Veritee rated Daniel very highly. She even took the part about posing as Paula's boyfriend pretty well, because - of course the old man couldn't employ a detective. That would frighten the very people who might know the truth.
Daniel looked at her, puzzled.
"The family, stupid" she said "the family. They’re the ones who think that you were once Paula's boyfriend, aren't they?"
Daniel nodded. She had a point.
"I mean, they must be a pretty dysfunctional family to produce something like Paula, right?"
"She wasn't that bad."
"She bloody well was. Remember that time in Hyde Park? Mad bitch! I thought we were all going to get arrested."
A group of them had climbed over the railings at about three o'clock in the morning, pissed and probably a little stoned. They had been to a party and hadn't wanted it to end. Somehow the fun had spiralled out of control. One by one they had come to their senses, until only Paula was left screaming like a banshee and rushing around naked in the moonlight. No amount of cajoling would make her calm down or put her clothes on. In the end they had left her to it.
"She was arrested."
"Yeah, but Daddy got her out pretty damn quick, didn't he?"
Abie pulled the cork on the bottle of wine she'd brought and poured two glasses.
" So, you think I should get into it, don't you? I mean, I can still pull out of it."
"No you can't. If your boss has given you two weeks off on Mr de Veritee's say-so, then I'd say, you were pretty much committed whether you like it or not."
Abie took a large mouthful of wine and held the glass up to the light.
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